


Saying the Words

by GhyllWyne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, John Watson's Blog, Johnlock - Freeform, Letter to Sherloick, Missing Scene, POV John Watson, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Suicide is not painless, heartbroken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2399426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhyllWyne/pseuds/GhyllWyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's blog entry to Sherlock, after the fall. The hardest part of losing someone can be living with the words left unsaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saying the Words

Notes: For anyone who has read chapter 5 of my story "Something Broken", this is an expanded version of it. I would love it if you wanted to read the rest, but this stands on its own. There was more John needed to say, so I gave him another chance. --GW

* * *

 

I knew you'd have the last word. It's your defining characteristic. I'm pretty sure you heard me at the time, but I told Irene Adler the same thing. I said you would outlive God so you could get in the last word. Ironic, that. Or maybe tempting fate. I wish I'd never said it.

I can't think of you in the past tense, by the way, so I'm not going to blog you that way, either. This is just for me, so my rules are the only ones that apply. You don't get a vote. 

I'm seeing Ella again, as of this morning. She has a one-track mind when it comes to therapy. I don't know if that's just in my case, or if she always prescribes blogging. I suspect she just hates typing and prefers that her patients keep their own notes. (and yes, Ella, I know you're reading this and my statement still stands, no offense) Whatever the reason, that's what she wants me to do. Something about stream-of-consciousness writing being able to bring out what the patient can't say out loud. Since I seem to have lost all verbal ability when it comes to you, I have to admit she may have a point.

There's another reason I'm doing this. Your brother arranged services for tomorrow, and they're expecting me to say a few words. "Eulogy" is the wrong term, but I don't know what would be more appropriate. Something less Victorian. More epic. I'm reasonably certain that I won't be able to deliver a word of it out loud, considering that I haven't even been able to say your bloody name yet without breaking down. You've reduced me to cliche.

I'm so pissed off at you that I want to punch everyone who comes within reach. Or maybe I'm just pissed that they're all walking and breathing and you're not. Do you have any idea how much it hurts just typing that? You're not breathing. I know you're dead, for Christ's sake, but that doesn't mean I believe it. 

Greg Lestrade probably saved my life, for better or worse. He had the misfortune to be the first person to cross my path in those first few hours. I guess he was here to do the witness interview but never quite got the chance. Instead, he got to watch me come apart, and then he stuck around to pick up the pieces. You really need to do something about not being able to remember the man's name. He's a true friend, not just a resource. You took *him* down with this, too. He's aged ten years in the past two days. I might have had something to do with that myself, though. It had to be tough to watch a grown man go to pieces like that, but he refused to leave me alone. I wasn't thinking about my dignity at the time. I am now, though. Not sure I'll be able to look him in the face for a while.

I don't remember much about the last time I saw you. I'm not sure I want to, but I probably don't have a choice. It will all come back eventually. There are some highlights that I can't get out of my mind. I can't go there right now. Not if I want to get this done.

I do have some experience with counseling grieving survivors. I worked with soldiers in the field who had lost a brother in battle. Not a blood relative, you know what I mean. Men form close bonds when they spend so much time together facing the daily possibility that one of them could be killed at any moment. Doing their best to keep that from happening. It's so easy to spout the standard platitudes and rationalizations, but it's all just empty, meaningless crap. No one can possibly understand what it feels like to watch someone you care so much about die and not be able to do anything to stop it. I thought I understood, but watching you stand on that ledge, I didn't believe you would jump, and when I saw you drop that damn phone I knew and there was nothing I could do to save you. It was too goddamn far to survive and I knew you were dead before I touched your hand. They wouldn't let me get any closer but I saw your face. For a few seconds, I thought you actually killed both of us. I never knew that a broken heart actually comes with physical pain. Did you know how much this was going to hurt?

Sorry, had to take a break. I said I wasn't going to write about that. I should have listened. Now, where was I? Oh, right. The futility of grief counseling. (sorry again, Ella) The problem is that there are no words in any language that will help. I think Greg's approach is the only one that could have worked as well as it did. The only thing I heard him say, and he said it a lot, was "I'm sorry." You can attach whatever meaning you need to hear from those two words. I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry I can't help you. I'm sorry your best friend was such a selfish, arrogant bastard that he would throw himself off a building before he'd let you help.

Goddammit. I'll never get through this.

Mike Stamford called this morning to offer his condolences. It reminded me that he's the reason we met. I don't know how I could have forgotten that part. He brought me to Bart's because you had said you were looking for a flatmate. Two minutes in, I got my first glimpse of that impossible brain of yours. And let me just say for the record that I will never believe you're a fraud. You could shout it from the rooftops (sorry I couldn't resist a little gallows humor) and I wouldn't buy it. Not for one second. And I never doubted you, not even when Moriarty showed up at that gossip monger's flat as Rich Brook. I know you thought I was beginning to wonder, and that hurt. I've been wracking my brain trying to understand what I might have done or said at any point in our relationship that would make you think you could tell me such an outrageous lie and have me accept it.

Was the phone call a test? Jesus, please don't tell me that you set up that bloody stupid phone call about Mrs. Hudson being shot just to see how I would react to you pretending not to care. I hate what I said, and it kills me that it was the last time we were together, but I was worried about her and you weren't making any sense. I was angry because you were suddenly someone I didn't recognize, and it scared the shit out of me. 

You're not a machine. I didn't mean that. I picked the one word that would hurt the most because that's what people do when they lash out. They attack the most vulnerable spot they can think of. I've never believed your Spock act, but you apparently thought I did. That damned word probably confirmed it, and I can never take it back. What's worse is that I'll never have another chance to say the things I should have. You think there will always be time. That's the problem with suicide. It's so damn final. You cut off all my options right along with yours. I wish I could ask you why.

Ella asked me to tell her all the things I wanted to say to you but never did. I can't. It would feel like I was betraying a confidence. The first person who should hear those things is you. I'm going to try to write what I couldn't say. 

I hope you're listening.

I never thanked you for saving my life. I don't mean the times you literally saved me, starting with Moriarty's poolside bomb. I'm talking about saving me from the life I was mired in when we met. I don't know how I would have ended up if I'd stayed the way I was. One thing is certain. I would have missed knowing my best friend, and I wouldn't trade the time I spent with you for anything, not even if I'd known how it would end. I can promise you one thing, though. If I *had* known, you wouldn't be dead, because I would have stopped you, no matter what it took. 

I can't imagine what could have made you do it. I know what everyone thinks, but they're wrong. We would have proved it was all a lie. You have to know that. No matter how airtight the case might have looked, it was a lie, and lies can't be sustained. Is that why Moriarty killed himself? To take away your last chance to clear your name? He was crazy enough to do something like that, but why would that make you give up? I don't understand.

There's a lot I don't understand. 

Why did you tell people you're a sociopath? You're not, if there's any chance you didn't actually know that already. Look up the definition. There's nothing about you that fits. You have (or feign) aspects of personality disorder, but that pretty much goes hand-in-hand with your level of genius. You're terrible at reading social cues. I think you passed that duty to me early on, and I didn't mind. It helped justify my presence because God knows you didn't need me for anything else. What was it you called me? Something about me not being a light source but a good reflector? I gather that meant I'm your sounding board, and I'll agree on that point. But you bounce ideas off me and carry on entire conversations when I'm not even in the building, so I'm not sure you need my actual presence now that you have the avatar. Am I better in person? I hope you can still talk to me like that. I can't stand the thought that you're alone.

Stop it.

Moving on.

I didn't realize how close to coming apart you were over the Gigantic Hound until you hit me with that poison dart about not having any friends. You apologized, sort of, but you were apologizing for the wrong thing. You were sorry for hurting me, not for what you said. You honestly don't think you have any friends, other than me, do you? You're so wrong. Greg Lestrade loves you like a son, despite the godawful things you say to him on a regular basis. You think he just tolerates you because you solve his cases. He appreciates you for that, but he loves you in spite of it Your genius comes with some pretty unbearable arrogance. It's justified arrogance, but you could tone it down a bit. I think I've helped you with that. Greg has said he sees a difference in you since you took up with me, and it's for the better. I believe you wanted to change. I'm really sorry we won't get to keep working on that.

Your obsession with The Work to the exclusion of all else is the biggest sham of all. What is the point of stopping serial killers if you don't care about saving the victims? You claim that the pure process of solving the puzzle is what attracts you. You don't care that there are actual human lives at stake because caring won't make saving them any easier. Bollocks. If all you wanted was a puzzle to solve, you could apply your genius to mathematics. Or physics. Or any other pure science without any human involvement. But you don't. And you don't even take credit for what you do, so you're not doing it for glory. You are doing it for the victims. 

I think I know why you needed the sham. It's not that you have no heart. I've seen your heart. It's huge but it's as fragile as mine. Maybe more. It's not that you don't care about people, it's that you care too much. You can't allow yourself to think about that because that kind of emotional involvement is crippling. I just wish you were able to balance the two instead of spending so much time denying that you're human. Thank God for it. Without that heart, you're Moriarty. Think about it.

I saved this next part for last because, ironically, that's exactly what's making it so hard to live with. I waited too long to say it to you, and now it's too late.

From the very beginning, I felt closer to you than anyone I've ever known, and I honestly don't know how I'm going to deal with never seeing you again. To be fair, I don't think you would be doing any better than I am right now, if you were the one left behind. I know you never meant to let anyone get so close, but the damage is done now, to both of us, and I will never be sorry. 

I've tried to tell myself that I was supposed to be the last survivor of this duo all along. You don't have the coping mechanisms to deal with something like this without me to help. All you would know to do is withdraw back behind that wall you let me inside, and you would never come out. 

I've never known what to call you. Best friend just doesn't cover it. Boyfriend is just as wrong, although that seems to be what everyone sees. I can't tell you how many times I had to correct people on that point, and now I wonder why it even mattered. There is a connection between us that will never be broken, and what we call it couldn't be less important. 

You *are* my best friend. And my brother. My burden. My blessing. My curse. My heart.

You are the best thing that could have happened to me, and the worst pain I will ever know. 

I have never in my life loved another human being the way I love you. That's not going to change. I will never know if hearing me say it would have kept you off that ledge. I would give anything for the chance to find out.

\--JW


End file.
